White Roses and Iron Crosses
by Bookboy42
Summary: It has been three centuries since Gilbert met Matthew. Three centuries of ups and downs, joy and pain, war and peace; and through it all, a love as close to eternal as anyone could ever hope for. Prucan, eventual M, warnings inside. Canada is NOT a girl.
1. Prologue

What up, biatches? Yep, this story is finally getting revived! *Fireworks* I hope to update once a week, but don't hold me to it. Oh well. We'll see. As always, comments and reader input is very appreciated.

WARNING! HERE THERE BE:

-Yaoi (gay male on male)

-Crossdressing

-Possible Mpreg

-Ignoring of canon age progression

-Other warnings to be added as I see fit

Enjoy!

I own nothing.

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He is beautiful in his repose, the moonlight spilling across our bed from the uncurtained window highlighting both strong musculature and slight curves. He is lovely, has always been so under the moon's kind rays, but tonight he seems even more so than usual. Creamy skin is cool against my own where he curls up against me, since it is winter outside; I don't mind. His head is pillowed on my shoulder, blonde waves falling into his face. My touch light as a feather, I brush a lock of burnished gold hair from his face, smiling softly when he shifts in his sleep and nuzzles unconsciously into me, never waking. His hair is longer than it has been the past century or so; he's growing it out again now that long hair on males has re-entered the mainstream.

A low fire crackles in the grate of the fireplace, casting a dim, warm ruddy light that contrasts artistically with the coldly bright and beautiful moonlight. The room is littered with the evidence of our recent activities: clothing carelessly scattered over the floor, not a single article between us, only a sheet draped over his hips preserving my lover's modesty and nothing covering myself; the smell of sex and sweat hanging heavy in the air; the small rag stained with semen and bottle of lubricant laying on one of the bedside tables.

It is peaceful in the aftermath of our lovemaking. Still. Contentment is almost tangible in the air, and I revel in the feeling of isolation. For a moment, the rest of the world does not exist. Tonight, we are alone; no politics to worry Matthew, no brother to distract me. No Canada, no Germany. Just Matthew and Gilbert, lovers and husbands for longer than any mortal could remember. These nights are far and few between and always unpredictable, always have been; I have learned to cherish them when they arise.

Continuing to pet soft blonde hair, my mind wanders.

I don't remember many details of the night I met Matthew Williams. I remember it was a warm summer night, at Francis' lavish estate just outside of Paris in the late 17th century- the exact year and day has been lost to me. I would have to look it up in one of my diaries. I was young by our standards then, a mere 460 or so years old, give or take a few decades; just barely old enough to be a man in my compatriots' eyes, my physical body reflecting that notion by appearing roughly 17. I was still one of Poland's duchies at the time, my time as a knighthood long past but my true Nationhood still to come. I believe Matthew was about 150 then, appearing a child of about 13.

Francis was throwing a party, a ball of some kind- such extravagant entertainments were common then, and all ran into each other after a while- meant to formally welcome Matthew into his house and show off his newest and grandest colony to the European elite. The ballroom was all burnished gold and blue, but I've forgotten which ballroom it was, Francis has had them all redone a number of times since then.

Matthew was going by a different name then; few Nations go too long without some kind of name change, after all. Then, he was called Matthieu Bonnefoy, but that night I was told it was Madeline Bonnefoy.

The evening itself I do not remember well, but Matthew I remember vividly. He was dressed as a young girl just on the cusp of womanhood, still a child but not for much longer. Like his father, he dressed in the height of fashion; a satin gown, jewelry made exclusively of pearls, long hair curled. He played the part of the charming debutant well, tricking even the most seasoned of Nations in the room into believing he was a female, and I suppose some part of me will always picture Matthew as an innocent, blushing maid in pink and pearls because of it.

As I danced with him that night, I thought my attraction to him no more than a passing fancy. I had not the slightest inkling what that deceptively restrained and pleasant colony from across the sea would one day become to me.

What a fool I was.


	2. Enchanting To Meet You

Here's the first actual chapter. Already I'm off schedule. (;n;) Oh well. Enjoy!

**Replies: **

AK: Thank you : )

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_**Paris, 1663**_

Matthieu Bonnefoy, the personification of the French colony New France, stood before his mirror on a small stool, calmly holding his arms out to the sides and standing still as two maids fluttered around him, putting the finishing touches on his outfit. His father, Francis, stood off to the side, studying his son calculatingly.

When the maids finally finished, Matthieu lowered his arms and turned to his father. "Well?" He asked.

Francis smiled, nodding approvingly. "Perfect. You are a vision of innocence and beauty, my child."

"Just as intended," Mattheiu added, smiling wryly.

"Just as intended," Francis agreed. The much older Nation held out a hand. "Come, fawn. It is time to test your camouflage."

Taking a deep breath, Matthieu closed his eyes and got himself into the appropriate mindset for the part he was about to play. When he opened them, he smiled charmingly and delicately took his father's hand, stepping down from the stool.

"I'm ready, Papa," he announced, voice suddenly a more girlish pitch.

Francis' smile warmed a little more with pride, the Frenchman impulsively kissing the back of his hand. "I do believe you are," he agreed. Turning toward the door, he began to lead Matthieu toward the ballroom downstairs. "Come along, Madeline."

ooooo

Gilbert sighed as he surveyed the ballroom from his place at a small table. He didn't like the festivities of the rich; they were always too extravagant for his simpler tastes. The wine was too sweet, the food too light- neither had any sustenance. The same could be said of the company. Noblewomen tittered behind fans over the latest inane gossip, the sound of their high-pitched laughter grating to his ears. Men were stuffed into suits two sizes too small for their fat rolls or boys that looked like they belonged gossiping with the women, neither jumping out at him as ideal conversational partners. Gilbert was an outsider here, his more somber, modest suit and rougher manners out of place here among the bright colors and elegant courtesies of Europe's finest. There was a smattering of other Nations present besides himself, jewels in this sea of fool's gold, but most he either couldn't stand for more than ten minutes or only saw him as "Poland's Duchy".

"Bored, amigo?"

He looked up to the eternally cheerful countenance of Antonio, one of his few friends. No, not Spain or the Spanish Empire; Antonio. Prussia and Spain were not friends; Gilbert and Antonio were. As were Gilbert and Francis, even though historically Prussia, Spain, and France had no reason to do anything but hate each other, and that was unlikely to change. But the older two had been more brother to Gilbert than his own brothers, and he had been missing them more and more of late as they explored the lands beyond the sea. So, naturally, he smiled his own crooked, wolf-like grin back at the older man, rising to embrace him.

"A little, but Frank-" he used their private nickname for Francis- "- insisted I be here, so here I am."

"Well, allow me to alleviate your boredom. Do you know why Frank asked us to be here?" Antonio said, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Not the slightest idea," Gilbert shrugged.

"Mm, well, rumor has it, Francis has finally won over his new province and is showing them off tonight," Antonio confided with a conspiratorial grin, taking the seat beside Gilbert.

"Really? You mean that uncivilized hunk of land he's been worrying over the last few decades... what was it... New France? So he finally made it a province, hm?"

"Si. He speaks very fondly of the child," Antonio said with a far-off look in his face, most likely thinking of his own dear "henchman". Lovino was cute and all, especially when he wore those dresses, but that temper of his... Then again, Antonio always did love castaways. Gilbert himself was a good example.

Gilbert made to answer, but was interrupted when the Spaniard's emerald eyes became fixed at the top of the grand staircase. He turned to follow his gaze, Gilbert's jaw dropping slightly.

Francis stood at the top of the staircase, dressed finely as always in sky blue and gold, but it was not he who caught Gilbert's attention. Rather, it was the young lady who stood beside him who captured his gaze.

She appeared about 13, but Gilbert could easily sense the aura of more that always flavored the presence of a Nation. She was dressed simply but elegantly, the lack of detail and decoration in her outfit making her stand out in a rather pleasant way. Her gown was a delicate rosy pink made in the style of the day, the neckline girlishly modest and the waist fashionably narrow, with puffy sleeves that were slashed and held together with tiny pearl buttons. A small decoration of embroidery forming a trio of white roses and a single pearl was at her breast. A string of pearls was wrapped around her throat, pearl earrings hanging from her earlobes. Fair skin practically glowed in the soft light of the candles, flesh Gilbert could see untouched by the cruelties of war. Long fawn-colored hair was curled in an elegant mass of curls that fell elegantly from her head, a few locks strategically framing a fine-featured face set with two large doe eyes the shade of the twilight sky- with the exception of one long strand of hair that curled from her widow's peak. A single white rose in full bloom was tucked behind her right ear. She smiled softly, a bashful flush staining her cheeks prettily.

Despite her lack of decoration, she far outshone every other lady and her fine silks and perfectly cut jewels in the room, their artificial splendor no competition for her natural beauty that was emphasized artfully by her garb.

The duo practically floated down the stairs, Francis looking every bit the proud father, the girl the picture of an innocent maid.

Antonio and Gilbert watched them travel through the crowd, the pair radiating confidence and refinement as they chatted with passing nobility and Nations alike, and apparently utterly charming both. It took a while, but eventually, Francis and the girl reached the table Gilbert and Antonio occupied, both males rising to greet their host.

"Antonio! Gilbert! You came!" Francis spoke happily, embracing the two. "It is wonderful to see you again, my brothers!"

"Good to see you too, Frank," Antonio returned with a grin before he turned to the girl. "And who is this enchanting young lady? It couldn't be the rebellious New France I've heard such horror stories of, could it?"

"The very same," she answered with a small mischievous smile that lasted only a moment before the pleasant smile returned. She bowed her head and dipped slightly, continuing, "I am Miss Madeline Bonnefoy. It is a pleasure to finally meet you both, Señor Carriedo, Herr Beilshmidt . Papa speaks very often of you both."

"Oh? Good things, I hope," Gilbert replied with a half-formed smirk, finally recovering his wits enough to awkwardly interject himself into the conversation.

"Of course," she assured them.

"Please, won't you sit with us?" Antonio offered, the four sitting at the small table together. The three men chatted pleasantly, catching up on the events of the past few months Francis had spent away. The Prussian paid very little attention to the conversation, though, his eyes constantly wandering to a certain fair-haired girl. She would often catch his gaze and raise a slender eyebrow in question, but he would look away instead of answering.

Eventually, Antonio nudged him with an elbow and gave him a pointed look, Gilbert valiantly fighting back a blush when he noticed both his friends sending him amused but encouraging looks. Steeling himself by calling himself a coward in six different languages in his head, Gilbert rose and approached Madeline, offering her a hand and asking, "May I have this dance?"

She smiled and placed a hand in his, replying, "I'd be delighted to."

He led her to the dance floor, where they joined the dancers already there. Her small hand was dainty, but he could feel her calluses against his palm, the hidden strength of a Nation in her light grip. Somehow it was comforting to have that assurance that she was not as delicate as she looked.

When the next bar began, they fell into step with the other dancers, only their hands touching. Gilbert had never been much of a dancer (especially when it came to the elegant, dignified dances of the nobility), his movements more reminiscent of a martial arts display than a dance, but the girl seemed content to follow him, adapting easily to Gilbert's rhythm.

This close, Gilbert could see more details of her appearance- her hair, for example, was actually a blend of several similar colors, hints of amber and honey and gold and even strawberry mixed into the dominant shade of fawn. Her eyes were similar, being a dark blue around the pupil and darkening to almost violet at the rims, between a confusing swirl of blues and purples that was best described as indigo. Her features were well-bred, rather similar to Francis' actually, but with a natural almost wild edge, nearly hidden by her mask of manners.

It was that wild edge that intrigued Gilbert. Combined with the brief impish expression earlier, it suggested there was much more to this girl than the sweet, polite child both Madeline and Francis were trying to pass her off as.

"So, you're New France," he started off clumsily. She nodded. Grasping for a topic, Gilbert asked, "I've never been to the Americas. Tell me about it."

Madeline smiled. "It's vast, compared to Europe," she began. "Vast and diverse. My northern shores are as bitterly cold as Siberia, my southern as hot as the Mediterranean. The land is harsh in places, most of it forest and mountains."

"Sounds beautiful," Gilbert hummed.

She smiled. "It is. My favorite part is the maple trees during the fall. The colors are so brilliant." She got a faraway look in her eyes, but quickly shook her head, focusing on Gilbert again. "I've never been to Prussia. Tell me about it."

"Well, it's the most awesome place on Earth, obviously," the older Nation boasted with a smirk, launching into a tirade about his nation's "awesomeness", Madeline listening obligingly with an amused twinkle in her eye.

They spent the rest of the evening dancing and talking, both young man and maid relaxing bit by bit until smiles were big and honest between them both, laughter loud and clear, conversation easy and flowing and somehow being meaningful without being about anything at all.

Dawn and the end of the party eventually came, though, both disappointed when Francis arrived, firmly suggesting the time had come for them to retire.

"Ah, well," Gilbert sighed, finally stopping dancing. He grinned, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. "Thank you for the lovely evening, fraulein."

Madeline smiled sweetly, dipping into a curtsy. "The pleasure was all mine, Herr." Delicately removing her hand from Gilbert's grip, she stepped back to stand demurely at Francis' side, the Frenchman's hand coming to rest at the small of her back in a fatherly fashion.

"Little Brother, I barely got to see you at all tonight!" Francis mock scolded Gilbert, barely hiding his smile.

Gilbert didn't bother, laughing heartily at his friend's teasing. "And what would you have me do as penance, O brother mine?"

Now Francis was smiling too. "You must come pay me a visit tomorrow, help me show dear Madeline around Paris. Perhaps stay as my guest for a while?"

"I suppose," Gilbert replied with a faux long-suffering sigh, both men chuckling. "Tomorrow it is, my friend. Will Toni be joining us?"

"Perhaps. He mentioned wanting to bring little Lovino and Regina along, so who knows," Francis shrugged.

"Hm. Well I suppose we'll see tomorrow, won't we." Gilbert's garnet gaze trailed back to Madeline, his smile becoming less boisterous and more bashful. "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," she replied with a smile of her own, a blush forming on her cheeks. The Prussian suffered Francis to kiss his cheeks, and took his leave. As he went to his rented bed for the night, he had the sneaking suspicion that a certain bronze-haired beauty would be a constant visitor in his dreams this night.

ooooo

Francis waited until Gilbert was out of sight, the last guest to leave, before speaking to his charge. "That went very well. I'm proud of you, child."

Matthieu beamed briefly at the praise, his face lighting up. "I like your friends Papa," he commented, allowing his voice to lower to its natural low tenor once again. "I... lying to them does not sit well with me," he admitted softly.

Francis frowned slightly. "Nor with I, child. But it's only for a little while. If you can deceive them for a whole week, then anyone else should be easy. It's just a test, Fawn, we will tell them soon."

"Won't they be upset at being fooled so badly?" Matthieu questioned, some anxiety in his tone.

Francis chuckled. "Probably not. Antonio will probably think it's very funny, and though Gilbert may be miffed for a while, I think he really likes you. He'll probably come to the conclusion that it's funny too after he gets over himself."

Matthieu shrugged. "Perhaps." Stifling a yawn, he turned away from his 'father'. "I'm tired, I think I'll turn in. Goodnight, Papa."

"Goodnight, Fawn. Sweet dreams," the older man replied, kissing the younger's cheek. Matthieu smiled softly and returned it, then finally retired to his rooms.

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Comments are wonderful!

**Translations: **

None


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